A drop of dye brushes the surface of the water, then unfurls, enveloping the entire glass. These are his eyes. They spin like vinyl. Music you can’t hear. He taught me to listen.

He looks at you. Always from the side, always with a smile that speaks.

He holds a pencil as he would a bird with wings made of paper.

He doesn’t consider himself a writer, but he is a poet in the purest sense.

He wants to feel the dirt of many countries beneath his feet.

His fingertips hold roughness born from passion played a thousand times, and yet the same smoke rises from the same fire in his bones.

He sings when he thinks no one is listening.

He once counted the constellations on my arm as I watched the real thing fight clouds in the sky.